The Bloodstained Throne (10 page)

‘Run!’ urged Magnus, plucking at his sleeve. ‘Stealing is a hanging crime among pirates.’

Geoffrey was puzzled. ‘We have not stolen anything.’

Roger looked defiant. ‘No, we have not. We took only what is rightfully ours.’

Geoffrey regarded him in horror. ‘What have you done?’

Roger scowled, then unclenched one of his big fists to reveal three gold coins. ‘They paid for the loss of our horses.’

‘That does not explain why they are chasing us,’ said Geoffrey. He narrowed his eyes. ‘Or did you take it without their permission?’

‘These were lying on the beach,’ said Roger defiantly. He sighed when Geoffrey looked sceptical. ‘All right – they were in that chest. But when they left it unattended, it seemed a good opportunity to claim what was our due.’

Geoffrey was disgusted. ‘No wonder they are angry! Give the money to me. I will return—’

‘No,’ said Roger shortly. ‘Those damned villains owe me a horse, so the only way they are getting this back from me is if they take it from my corpse.’

‘They will not be content with its return now anyway,’ Magnus pointed out. ‘They will kill us regardless. I have been forced to associate with Fingar for years, and he is deadly when crossed – even his own men are terrified of him.’

Geoffrey stole a glance over his shoulder and saw the captain was leading the chase. Even from a distance, Fingar’s face was slashed with a savage fury, and he suspected Magnus was right: Roger’s actions had crossed some irreversible line.

‘Your only hope for avoiding death is to come with me, but I will not wait,’ said Magnus, moving away. ‘Come now or die.’

Reluctantly, Geoffrey followed him along a narrow path that soon had them out of sight from the main track. Then he was stumbling along a barely visible trail that snaked past quicksands, through alder thickets and across muddy channels. It jigged and twisted, and Geoffrey quickly lost all sense of direction. They had not gone far when Roger, bringing up the rear, released a yell that brought Geoffrey to an abrupt standstill. Then came the sound of clashing weapons.

Ignoring Magnus, who declared that thieves should be left to their fate, Geoffrey raced back along the path. But when he reached Roger, it was to find his friend wiping the blade of his sword on the grass, two bodies lying nearby.

‘
They
will not be hoodwinking hapless travellers into sailing with them again,’ he said grimly. ‘I have saved countless lives by dispatching such wicked fellows.’

‘Come on,’ said Geoffrey urgently. It was no time for Roger’s contorted logic and twisted morals – the slapping of feet on mud indicated more sailors were catching up. He turned and ran, Roger’s lumbering footsteps behind him.

It was easy to retrace his steps at first – his rush to Roger’s aid had left a trail of broken twigs and bruised leaves – but then the path disappeared. Geoffrey had the uneasy sense that Magnus had abandoned them, but he blundered on, breath coming in short gasps and sweat drenching his shirt under his heavy mail. Roger was already slowing, and Geoffrey knew they could not keep up such a rapid pace for much longer.

‘Here!’ Juhel suddenly hissed from one side. ‘This way.’

He rearranged the bushes after the knights went by, to disguise their passage. It was not a moment too soon, because one of the ship’s boys appeared, carrying a dagger and clearly intending to use it. He raced past, eyes fixed on the more obvious track ahead. Four or five others followed, and then there was silence.

‘Hurry,’ said Juhel, pushing past Geoffrey so he could be in front. ‘Magnus said he would post Ulfrith at the next junction, but I do not trust him.’

‘I do,’ panted Roger. ‘He needs us as much as we need him – more, probably. And besides, there he is.’

‘Where have you been?’ demanded Magnus furiously. ‘I ordered you to stay with me, not go haring off. Here is the next junction, and we turn right. No, left.’ He reconsidered. ‘No, it
is
right. Hide our tracks, Ulfrith.’

‘You must have been very young when William fought Harold,’ said Geoffrey to Magnus, watching Ulfrith jump to obey. ‘When were you last here?’

Magnus started to jog along the path he had chosen. ‘I was eight when I fought at my father’s side at Hastinges, and eleven when I last tried to wrest my throne from the Normans, so it has been some thirty years . . . but I know these paths well—’

The rest of the sentence was lost as he plunged head-first into a boggy pool. With some trepidation, and aware that the sounds of pursuit were coming closer again, Geoffrey tugged him out, recalling that earlier Magnus had admitted to being with his mother during the battle. The Saxons’ great hope was liberal with the truth.

‘I was just seeing how deep it was,’ snapped Magnus in embarrassment, once he was on dry land. He looked around quickly, then headed for a mud bank that stood the height of a man. Its sides were slippery with algae, and trees grew along its crest, roots twisting downwards. He scrabbled towards a dense patch of brambles. ‘This is it. Help me.’

To his surprise, Geoffrey saw a cunningly hidden refuge – a screen of woven twigs concealing a small door that led to a dank cavern. Magnus dived inside, leaving the others to follow. Ulfrith, Juhel and Bale were next, then Roger; Geoffrey brought up the rear, dragging the screen back into position as he did so.

The cave was a marvel. Not only was it so well concealed that it was invisible from outside, but it was surprisingly spacious. It comprised a single chamber, high enough at the front to allow a man to stand without stooping, and tapering off to shadowy recesses at the back. It was wide enough for several men to stand side by side without touching, and there were pots and containers attached to the walls, suggesting it was sometimes used for extended periods.

However, it was pitch black once the door was shut, and it felt close and airless. Geoffrey detested underground places of any kind, and ones that had slippery walls and water on the floor were among the worst. He felt his chest tighten when the stench of old mud clogged his nostrils, and he was sure there was not enough air for everyone to breathe. He began to cough, trying desperately to muffle the sound, which made it worse. The urge to run outside again was intense.

Roger reached past him and cracked open the door. The gap was no more than the width of a finger, but it allowed light and air to filter inside and was enough to let the panic recede. Roger clapped a gruffly comforting hand on his shoulder. Geoffrey had once been in charge of a countermine under a castle Tancred was besieging, and it had been several days before they had excavated him after its collapse. Although years had passed, the terror of his ordeal remained. He focussed his attention on the sliver of light, forcing himself not to think about where he was.

Meanwhile, the pirates had discovered the path and had reached the mud bank. It began to rain hard, so that the whole marsh seemed to hiss and sway with the force of it, and somewhere nearby a bird issued a low, undulating cry. Donan, Fingar’s rodent-faced second-in-command, muttered a prayer to ward off evil spirits.

‘Fays,’ he said. ‘They haunt bogs and come out to grab unwary souls. Unless you cross yourself and say the name of your favourite saint three times, they will get you.’

Immediately, a variety of saints were invoked in a mixture of Irish and English, some of whom Geoffrey had never heard of.

Fingar bent to inspect some footprints, and the dog began to growl. Sensing rather than seeing a movement behind him, Geoffrey became aware of Magnus holding a knife – he intended to kill the animal, to shut it up. Geoffrey crouched down and put his arm around it, reassuring it into silence.

Just when Geoffrey was sure they were going to be caught, Donan pointed across the marshes.

‘There!’ he hissed. ‘I saw a flash of movement. It must be them. Come on!’

Most of the men followed, although Fingar stood uncertainly, squinting into the rain and clearly not convinced that Donan was right. But Donan shouted something else, and, with an impatient grunt, Fingar followed. And then they were gone.

Five

Inside the cave, a collective sigh of relief was heaved. Roger sheathed his sword, and Geoffrey opened the door a little wider. The shelter might be cleverly constructed, but it stank, for some reason, of garlic, and he preferred the odour of wet vegetation from outside.

‘We have given them the slip,’ said Bale in satisfaction. He sat on a platform that was obviously intended to serve as a bed, and glanced up at Roger. ‘How much are those coins worth?’

Roger tossed him one, accompanying it with a grin that oozed wicked greed. Bale hefted it in his hand and whistled under his breath before handing it to Geoffrey, who was also astonished by its weight. He had never seen such a thick, heavy coin and was certain each would be worth a small fortune – more than ample to buy horses and travel to the Holy Land. He was not surprised Fingar was keen to have them back.

‘How many did you take?’ he asked. ‘Just three?’

‘A handful,’ replied Roger evasively. ‘I did not have time to count.’

‘How many?’ repeated Geoffrey coldly.

With considerable reluctance, Roger emptied the pouch on his belt. A dozen or so gold coins dropped out, along with a huge number of silver ones of lesser value. Geoffrey was horrified.

‘There is a king’s ransom here!’ he cried. ‘Fingar and his men will follow us to the ends of the world to get this back.’

‘You are right,’ said Juhel. He was pale, and Geoffrey saw he was equally shocked by Roger’s crime. ‘Men are willing to risk anything for this kind of money.’

‘It is paltry,’ said Roger dismissively. ‘They were lucky I did not demand their salvage, too.’

‘If I had such a fortune, England would be mine in a week,’ said Magnus, eyeing it lustfully. ‘I do not suppose you would care to donate it to the cause? I will repay it with interest when I am king. And I will make you Bishop of Ely.’

‘Not Ely,’ said Roger in distaste. ‘It is surrounded by bogs. I want Salisbury.’

‘You may be waiting some time,’ warned Juhel. ‘For your gold
and
your title.’

Magnus glared. ‘I will repay him tenfold before the end of summer.’

‘I shall not part with it just yet,’ said Roger, although Geoffrey was alarmed to see he was giving the offer consideration. Roger was a man for whom ‘tenfold’ was a tempting word.

‘You are wise,’ said Juhel. ‘King Henry would not be pleased to hear that the funding for a Saxon revolt came from Norman knights.’

‘How would he hear that?’ demanded Magnus, rounding on him. ‘Will
you
tell?’

Juhel laughed. ‘Of course I will! He and I often dine in his private chambers, and he frequently asks my advice. I shall mention it the very next time I see him.’

‘Enough,’ said Geoffrey. Magnus’s visions of Saxon rebellion were no better than smoke in the wind. ‘I am more concerned with Fingar. None of us will be safe until you give that money back.’

‘Rubbish,’ declared Roger. ‘For all Fingar knows, these are coins I carried in my personal baggage, and he will never be able to prove otherwise. Besides, he is a pirate, so this is almost certainly gold he stole from someone else.’

‘Then it is probably cursed,’ said Juhel. ‘The original owners may have asked God to avenge the crime by making dreadful things happen to the thieves. I always do, when villains wrong me.’

‘We should give it back,’ said Bale, crossing himself hurriedly. ‘I have heard that pirates are rather free and easy with curses, too.’

‘They are not,’ said Roger, with completely unwarranted confidence. ‘My father is Bishop of Durham, so you can trust that I know about such things.’

Geoffrey was disinclined to argue. Like many Normans, Roger was highly partial to gold, and Geoffrey knew from long and bitter experience that nothing would induce him to part with it.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But I want no part of it.’

‘He is right,’ came an unfamiliar voice from the depths of the hole. Geoffrey and the others raised their weapons in alarm. ‘Nothing good ever comes from theft – as that usurper Henry is about to discover.’

‘Who are you?’ demanded Geoffrey, as a short, chubby man emerged from the darkness. His bright yellow hair and flowing moustache indicated he was in his thirties, like Geoffrey himself, but his skin had a reddish, debauched look, and the broken veins on his round nose indicated a fondness for good living. His clothes were fine, although mud-stained, and, like Magnus’s, were adorned with a good deal of expensive thread and intricate Saxon embroidery.

‘I am King Harold,’ replied the man grandly.

‘Lord,’ muttered Geoffrey in the startled silence that followed. ‘
Another
monarch?’

‘A number of us have claims,’ said Magnus stiffly. ‘Some stronger than others.’

‘Are you eating garlic?’ asked Juhel, sniffing. ‘The smell is suddenly a good deal stronger.’

‘I like garlic,’ said Harold defensively. ‘It thickens the blood, protects against evil and inspires courage. I have a few cloves here, ready peeled. Would you like one?’

When he stretched out his hand to present his offering, Geoffrey saw faint scars around the man’s wrists and wondered what had caused them.

‘No, thank you,’ said Juhel. ‘But I was under the impression that King Harold had died more than thirty years ago – on the battlefield.’

‘Hacked to pieces,’ added Roger rather ghoulishly, ‘with axes.’

‘Actually,’ said Magnus curtly, ‘my father was killed by an arrow in the face. I was not on the field when he died – a battleground is no place for a child of eight – but I saw his body afterwards.’

‘But
my
father said he was hacked to death by swords,’ said Geoffrey doubtfully. ‘He claimed to have witnessed it.’

Of course, Godric Mappestone had not been the most truthful of men, and his memories of the battle had grown more elaborate as he had aged. Further, Geoffrey’s mother, famous for her own martial skills, had once confided that she had fought at Hastinges herself, and she had told a different story – one of confusion and panic as the long day of fighting drew to a close, and encroaching darkness, blood and thick mud had rendered one man much like another. Herleve Mappestone had maintained that it was impossible to tell what had happened to King Harold. His corpse had certainly been mutilated, but it would never be known whether he had died at the point of a sword, an axe or an arrow.